


Love Songs

by notjustmom



Series: Love Songs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 2018 Valentine Challenge, Case Fic, M/M, Retirementlock, alternate first meeting, mostly just fluffy idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-14 08:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: These wee song fics are based on prompts from a challenge on tumblr...





	1. Heroes

“There aren’t any more heroes, John. Not that I ever believed there ever were, except maybe, you.”  
John slid down the wall to sit next to Sherlock. He leaned against him and sighed as he felt Sherlock’s arm drape around his shoulder.

“I can remember… standing by the wall and the guns, shot above our heads…and we kissed, as though nothing could fall….” *

“Now? Now, you remember Bowie?”

Sherlock leaned in closer and John finally surrendered.


	2. "The First Time Ever..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face." Written by Ewan MacColl for Peggy Seeger.

“The first time ever I saw your face  
I thought the sun rose in your eyes  
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave  
To the dark and the endless skies…” *

John walked slowly over to Sherlock’s chair, and couldn’t help from singing the words aloud, as Sherlock looked up at him.

“What are you on about?” Sherlock pushed his specs into his salt and pepper curls and narrowed his eyes.

“In the shop - they had music on, and I recognized the words, but it wasn’t the song I knew… and when it was over, the announcer said it was Miley Cyrus… and I - realized how - I remembered the first time, you looked up at me, just like that, and then I wished - I wished I hadn’t, I had been braver - that I would have told you then. I knew it was crazy, but I - so much time…”

“John.” Sherlock stood up from his chair, laying the book aside - he didn’t even know why he was reading it, and took a couple of steps towards his husband. “I wasn’t - I couldn’t, not then - I had to grow up, I needed to - do you know what I remember most?”

John shook his head. 

“The first time you laid your hand on my face, and told me I was an idiot - and then you kissed me - after, everything - I knew, that it had been worth it - to see the light, the light in your dark eyes. There are times when I wish I could delete it, so you could kiss me again for the first time.” He shook his head at him and sighed. “But I’ve never been able to delete anything about you - and I can’t imagine not having that memory.”

John leaned into him and whispered. “You old romantic, you.”

“Mhmm… did you remember the tea?”

“I - completely forgot it, I just had to come home and see you.”

“And I’m the old romantic…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGtLlkw3QV0


	3. "A Poem on the Underground Wall"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the song of the same name by Simon & Garfunkel. And this bit may become yet another verse... 
> 
> "The last train is nearly due  
> The underground is closing soon  
> And in the dark deserted station  
> Restless in anticipation  
> A man waits in the shadows
> 
> His restless eyes leap and scratch  
> At all that they can touch or catch  
> And hidden deep within his pocket  
> Safe within its silent socket  
> He holds a colored crayon..."

He was finally home, had been home for a few months now. But he didn't recognize most of it. He didn't think that much would have changed in just two years' time, but London tasted differently than it had before he left. Or perhaps it was him. Perhaps he had changed too much to remember what he loved about the city in spite of its bleak greyness and overly bright lights... he found these days he preferred the darkness of the Underground. Someone had stolen his phone and wallet, not that he had much to steal, just a few pounds... but he had retrieved his violin from Baker Street, and had taken to busking. No one paid him much mind, as he usually covered his head with the hoodie, no one would have remembered any way... no one had cared when he left, except his brother, maybe, and that girl - no, not a girl, she was a pathologist after all - and she had helped... Molly - but, he was done. Just done.

 

He had no more patients on the books, it was early for once, he might hit the local before heading back to - back to what? His empty flat? The new flat he had moved into after realizing he couldn't marry her. He didn't really know why, he had always believed one day, he'd meet someone who was 'it' and he would know it when he saw them for the first time. Mary was smart, funny, and independent, and she loved him. He knew that, but she also knew he didn't love her in the same way, so she let him off the hook easily, even left him the expensive ring he had gone all out for, it was how he could afford the one bedroom he moved into a year ago... already a year... damn there goes the bell... didn't really feel like arguing politics tonight anyway...

"Can I help you?" A man in ragged trousers and a hoodie that hung badly on his thin shoulders lifted the hood from over his face and John Watson took a step back. "But - you're dead - you - you jumped from Bart's - you're dead," and he fainted for the first time in his life. When he opened his eyes, a few minutes later, the obviously not dead man was watching him from a safe distance. He had somehow moved him to the couch John would crash on when he didn't feel like going home.

"I'm obviously not dead. I do apologise for startling you, I saw your light, and was hoping - I have a bit of a cough, and I'm trying to make sure it doesn't turn into pneumonia or the plague, whatever is going around these days... I'm surprised you recognized me. It's a long story, one I'd rather not get into right now, but I understand if it's too late - I know you are one of the few with later hours." He replaced the hood and made to walk towards the door, when John sat up and cleared his throat.

"Wait. Stay - I mean. I can take a listen - see if there is anything that can help. I - I'm right, though, you are Sherlock Holmes?"

The man turned back and smiled sadly at him. "I used to be, not sure who or what I am any more. I - this was a mistake, I'm sorry again, for bothering you, Dr. Watson."

"Please. You don't have to tell me - I won't ask - it's just - I - followed your blog, and I - thought you were brilliant. Please, let me help you."

Sherlock searched his face for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you, it's been a while since anyone thought I was brilliant."


	4. "A Poem on the Underground Wall" Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> conclusion of the bit...

"It would be easier, if -" John watched as Sherlock walked over to the examination table and sat gingerly on the end. 

Sherlock nodded and drew in a sharp breath as he shrugged out of the hoodie, then met John's eyes. "Yes, just about everything hurts if I think about it too much." He closed his eyes as John gently picked up his wrist to take his pulse, then sighed as he opened them again while he waited for John's first question.

"I don't - are you, I don't know -"

"Still dead?"

John nodded as he warmed up the stethoscope then placed it on his back. He stepped back involuntarily and tried to speak, but couldn't.

"That bad, hmm? I haven't -"

"No one's -"

"Yes, I'm still dead, technically, in legal terms, at any rate. I've been back for a few months, I think... and no, I - had a guy patch me up, hmm, guess it was damn, nearly a year ago now - did the best he could, some of the deeper scars still let me know when the weather is going to change -"

John stepped forward again and moved the stethoscope lower. "Deep breath... again? Yeah, it sounds a bit -"

"A bit not good?"

"Yeah, technical term, meaning absolutely nothing."

Sherlock chuckled, then shook his head. "Damn, still hurts to laugh, haven't had many opportunities in a while."

John muttered to himself, "I know the feeling."

"What's your story?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"You mean you can't tell me - you're not going to dazzle me with your deductions?"

"I don't do that anymore, and I don't think you really want me to."

"I'm sorry - that was -"

"Expected. And why I don't come up here much."

"Up here?"

"I spend most of my time busking in the Underground. There are places where it's easy to disappear, even in broad daylight, and no one talks to people like me -"

"But, then why -"

"Why come home?"

John moved to stand in front of him and gingerly felt his ribs.

"I thought - I could, I don't know, pick up where I left off - but -"

"They never cleared your name."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not - I realised, too late in life, that I just should have become a pirate."

John chuckled. "A pirate?"

"Yeah, when I was a child I wanted to become a pirate or a detective - and pirates were out of vogue back when I left uni; I thought I could help people, do some good - but people..."

John nodded. "People need too much - all finished, you can put your hoodie back on - listen, I have a bottle here, for emergencies - do you, god - I must sound -"

Sherlock put the hoodie back on and shook his head. "Kindest offer I've had in a long time. Maybe another time. What's your prognosis, Doc?"

"You need to stay out of the cold and damp for a bit - there's a bit of a rattle, but I don't know if that's recent or -"

Sherlock nodded and offered John his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Watson." He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then gazed at the smaller man, as if in search of an answer, then nodded again, a slight grin dancing on his slightly chapped lips. "I can be found at 221B Baker Street, if you are ever in need of - tea, or a chat - or a consulting detective, but - if you don't mind - don't let the cat out of the bag quite yet."

John grinned back and took Sherlock's hand, holding it a bit tighter than he intended. "Sorry -"

"No, it's fine - it's all fine." He squeezed John's hand, lifted the hood over his greying curls, then quietly left the room.

John sat down hard in his chair and pulled out the bottle, and a paper cup, and poured himself a double as the bell let him know he was alone once more.

"Seeing ghosts, now." He muttered to himself as he tossed back the drink, then walked over to the examination table and found an old business card. "Sherlock Holmes, 221 B Baker Street Consulting Detective" He flipped it over and shook his head as at some point, the formerly dead detective had scribbled out, "Thank you, John."

"No, thank you, Sherlock." John put the bottle away, grabbed his coat and turned off the lights, then headed home, as the rain began to fall.


	5. "A Poem on the Underground Wall" Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well... sigh, one more bit?

After a week of searching the tabloids for the return of Sherlock Holmes from the dead and seeing nothing, John's training instinct overwhelmed his desire to keep his promise to 'keep the cat in the bag.' He tried to convince himself that he was just checking on the welfare of a patient, as he collected his bag, then told his receptionist that he was taking an early lunch and would be back in time for his two o'clock. She nodded and went back to texting her girlfriend.

John shook his head. 221 B Baker Street was only a ten minute walk from his office, though he had taken a cab, just in case. He realized then how little he knew London, he spent so much time working... he found himself knocking on the door, as the doorbell looked ill-used, to say the least, and an older woman opened the door to him. "Yes, dear?"

"Is he - the man who lives upstairs - or used to -"

She looked him over for a moment, then recognition lit up her features. "You must be the nice doctor who took a look at him last week. I'm afraid - he's not doing well, I tried getting him to call you, but he didn't want to bother you."

"Is he -" and then he heard the screech of what he knew to be a Stradivarius in pain. "At least he's standing... idiot."

She laughed and let him in the door and directed him up the stairs. "Just be forewarned - when he's under the weather, he's a bit grumpy."

"Thank you -"

"Martha Hudson, Dr. Watson. I'm just his landlady -"

"and CERTAINLY NOT my HOUSEKEEPER! WHO is IT?? If it's my brother tell him to go to blazes -" A voice bellowed from above before dissolving into a coughing fit.

"Damn. I - was worried that might happen. Does anyone else know that he's -" 

"Back from the great beyond? His brother has been here, but he won't see him - and that nice detective inspector he used to work with was allowed up for a few minutes... oh, and Molly - poor girl... but no, no one else seems to be aware. I think it's still a secret."

John nodded. "I - if I don't come back down in an hour -"

"I'll come up with tea - no worries, I know how to deal with him, dear."

"Good."

 

John walked up the steps carefully, cringing as he hit that one creaky step that these older places always seemed to have, and he held his breath - no new sounds came from above, so he sighed, and continued up to a door that was slightly ajar.

"Dr. Watson." An exhausted face appeared at the door, it was apparent that he had been unwell for several days and John nodded, and was about to admonish him, when he opened the door, then flopped onto the nearby couch. "I know - I should have called you, but coming back from the dead has its drawbacks, people, as you said, the night we spoke, they need, expect..." He fell into another fit of coughing, then curled into himself when he finished. "My apologies, I'm not quite -"

"Shh." John sat down on the couch next to the shivering man, and gently took him into his arms. Sherlock froze, then looked up at him, and in a hoarse groan muttered out, "do you attend to all of your patients in this manner, or just the ones who come back from the dead?"

John rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I think - you know, you saw - I'm sorry I waited this long to check up on you, I was trying to respect your privacy, but, today - I had a feeling that you might need something -"

"Or someone?" Sherlock closed his eyes and moved closer to John, and tried to take a breath, but coughed instead.

"Shhh. I brought along some decongestants, and I'm guessing your ears are hurting? I'm guessing an ear infection on top of the -" Long, trembling fingers reached up to stop the flow of words that tumbled from his mouth, and John shuddered. "Sorry - I - you're all I've thought about all week - I wanted to - I should have -"

"You're here now, John. That's all that matters," Sherlock whispered as his arm dropped and he fell asleep in John's arms.


	6. "A Poem on the Underground Wall" Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and because I can't stop writing these two... I won't

"No. NO! Please..." John let Sherlock struggle out of his arms and move away from him, knowing from his own experience, it wouldn't help to try to talk him out of it yet. He wanted, god, he wanted to help him, but knew it wasn't about what he wanted at the moment. Sherlock curled up on the other end of the couch and went back to sleep. 

John sighed and took his phone out of his pocket, and called his surgery. "Yeah - can you reschedule my afternoon, yeah, well, just do it, please? I'll work late tomorrow if necessary - thank you."

Mrs. Hudson tapped lightly on the door, then entered, bearing a tray of tea. "Good. You managed to get him to sleep - he doesn't usually allow himself to sleep much, the nightmares... I know it's not good for him, but he's a bit of a stubborn arse, and the strongest person I've ever known. If anyone can get through this, it's him." She placed the tray on the coffee table and pulled over a chair. "When did you meet him?"

"I'd never seen him until last week - I mean, I knew who he was the minute he took the hood off, I had followed his career, and when he - I don't know, 'left?'" Mrs. Hudson sipped at her tea and nodded. "It was like I had lost a friend, even though I'd never met him. It was -"

"Devastating. And the worst part was, when he came back, he didn't know - he had no idea that he was missed. That he had been grieved for, well, by those who didn't know, and I suppose it was even harder on those who knew, but had to pretend that he was really gone, because they didn't know if he'd make it back. I nearly killed him with my best skillet when he came home last week, and then I saw how ill he was and I helped him to bed. You got him to come home, Dr. Watson, I don't know what you said, but - thank you. And now - I have some dusting to do..."

"Hudders - leave the bloody dusting, please?" Sherlock muttered without opening his eyes. "And John, don't you have somewhere to be - patients.. or - a girlfriend - no - sorry - she left you, or you - hmm... a mutual parting of the ways, interesting."

Mrs. Hudson got up from her chair and rolled her eyes at John. "His bark is worse than his bite, Dr. Watson."

"Please, call me John."

"John - if you need anything, please let me know." It seemed she was going to say something to Sherlock, then changed her mind and went back downstairs.

Sherlock finally opened his eyes and considered John for a moment before speaking. "You took the afternoon off. For me. Why?"

John looked down at his hands, then raised his eyes to meet the greenest, brightest eyes he'd ever seen in his life. "I know the people scheduled for today, they can be seen tomorrow or next week. They don't need me, anyone will do -"

"But, you think I need you." Sherlock uncurled from his position on the couch and sat up, and tried not to cough, failing miserably.

"Yeah, you do."

"And I thought I used to be an arrogant sod." Sherlock shook his head as he reached for a chocolate biscuit. "So, what are your intentions, Dr. Watson? Stay by my side, make sure I eat and sleep, take my meds and -" Another cough rattled through him and he put the biscuit down, stretched out again, resting his head in John's lap, and his eyes closed once more.

"Love you, if you'll let me." John whispered as he pressed a kiss into Sherlock's sweat-dampened curls.


	7. "A Poem on the Underground Wall" Part 5

"You must be bored," Sherlock rasped out, when he opened his eyes again, hours later.

John shook his head and pushed a curl from his eyes. "No. Are you hungry? Mrs Hudson brought up some soup, I can heat that up for you -"

Sherlock didn't answer him, but reached up to lay a shaky hand on John's cheek. "That thing you said - as I was falling asleep."

John's face flushed hot and he tried to look away from Sherlock's intense gaze, but found he couldn't. He nodded and mumbled out, "I - you will probably think -"

Sherlock watched him carefully, but said nothing.

"I always, god, this sounds ridiculous in my own head, I can't imagine -"

"John."

"Right. I always believed one day, I would meet someone, and just know. I'm forty-three, and I never - you're right, I was engaged to a woman, she was great, everything I thought I wanted, but we both knew... it's been over a year since we broke it off." He pinched his nose and drew in a slow shuddering breath, then looked down into Sherlock's eyes again. "I didn't meet my heart until a week ago, when you walked into my surgery - and I know..."

"You think - what you think you know of me - from the tabloids, and my own, I don't know, creation of, I suppose, you could call the Sherlock Holmes you 'know'... he is my alter ego. He was what I created so I had a character I could slip into when needed. In reality, I am worse than him and, well, less machine-like than you might think. I am all too human, John. When you took my pulse, and checked my ribs - it was the first time anyone had ever touched me in kindness - it took everything I had to leave you that night. After you saw what was done to me - and you still, you still -"

Without a word, John lifted his jumper over his head, letting it fall to the floor, and moved Sherlock's trembling hand to his shoulder. "I went to war, and nearly died years before you - I did - I was - dead for over a minute, and they brought me back. I think that's why I thought, I believed that there was someone who would - I spent years alone, thinking no one could ever want me, and I nearly settled for a good person, but she wasn't the one - I came here today, to tell you that you don't have to do this on your own. Yes, I want to care for you, make sure you eat and sleep, and heal, and perhaps, one day, you'll let me love you, as you deserve to be."

For the first time in his life, Sherlock had no response, except to move his hand into John's silver-etched hair and pull him into a gentle kiss, that became something less gentle, and more everything. Everything he ever thought he wanted, but had never dared to hope for, was wrapped tightly around him, as if he were worth saving.

"You are, Sherlock. You are, love."

**Author's Note:**

> * from Heroes, written by Brian Eno and David Bowie


End file.
